


familiar faces, worn out places

by Lise



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Dark, Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 15:39:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lise/pseuds/Lise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are both broken shadows. Maglor finds something he can do about it. Sort of. Expect no compassion here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	familiar faces, worn out places

Daeron didn’t know why he kept Maglor around. 

Well, no, he did know. It was because he was lonely, and alone, and there was hardly anyone else in the world, and certainly no one else who understood in quite the same way what he felt and why. In their own fashion, they were both murderers. 

Only, Daeron hadn’t killed masses, or whole cities, or done so in pursuit of a gem that hadn’t worked out for them anyway. Small differences. 

Maglor seemed to like the beach, and the sea. Daeron was less fond of it, but they kept coming back anyway. Maglor stared across the sea, his burned hands open at his sides, and for a moment Daeron could feel sorry for him. 

(Only for a moment. Never forget, never entirely forgive.) _This was a lie._

As travel companions went, Maglor was not the most pleasant. All too often he woke screaming. And on those nights Daeron took him in his arms and rocked him, singing soft lullabies, and pretended he felt no sympathy or sorrow for the Noldorin in his arms.

Maybe it wasn’t so strange, though; their world had ended, after all, and there was so little left of what the two of them had known.

* * *

“I know you,” Maglor said. Daeron glanced at him, poking at his weak attempt at a fire. It was raining, and even under the trees it was damp. 

“I should hope so. We’ve been traveling together for some time.”

“No, I mean-” Maglor shook his head, like he was a dog shaking away water, or a haunted elf shaking away ghosts. “—before. I knew you. I saw you once.”

“I remember,” Daeron said after a moment of silence. “I didn’t think you did.”

Maglor smiled, thinly. His face was thinner than it had been then, his cheekbones sharp, his body all thin angles and hard lines. “I remember quite a lot.”

 _I know,_ Daeron thought. _You scream it almost every night. I see it in your eyes. Yes, I know you remember._ “It was – Fingolfin had finally crossed the Grinding Ice. Your brother had given over the High Kingship. It was a joyful occasion. I was young. You were there with your brothers.”

Maglor flinched, as he always did at the mention of his brothers. “You played well,” he said, quietly. “I remember that.” 

Daeron shrugged. “I played adequately. I knew nothing, then.” He had been besotted with Luthien already, still dreaming that she might someday have eyes for him, if only he stayed close by. He’d believed in peace and justice and righteousness. His songs then had been dancing songs. 

Maglor looked distant. “Moryo argued with Angamaite. It was a stupid argument. They were always…I never thought it would come to anything. I was happy. Relieved. I thought then that perhaps our misery had passed.”

“Ha,” said Daeron. Maglor’s mouth twisted. 

“Eru,” he said, and his voice sounded like cracking. “We were all so young…”

They both fell silent, and stared at the smoldering, failing fire.

* * *

The first time it happened, Daeron wasn’t expecting it. They were at the beach again, watching the sun set blazing into the water, and he heard Maglor take a deep, shuddering breath. Then Maglor was on his knees in front of him, undoing his breeches, slender scar-roughened fingers grasping his manhood.

“I’m sorry,” Maglor’s breath whispered over his skin, and his eyes are wild and dark, full of ghosts and anguish. “I’m sorry, so sorry, just let me-”

And Daeron was alone (lonely) for so long, and a nasty, dark part of him thought _I deserve this_ and he let the Fëanorian stroke him from root to tip and take him in his mouth, fingers playing him lightly like the most precious of instruments. Maglor’s lips slid over sensitive skin, the picture of contrition, and gasping, Daeron tangled his fingers in Maglor’s hair and _forgave._

* * *

They didn’t speak about it after. Daeron didn’t kiss him, didn’t take him in his arms or name him lover. Maglor didn’t touch him again, but remained on his knees, his breathing soft, almost inaudible. This is what we are, now, Daeron thought. All we are. The once great. 

He walked away.

* * *

He didn’t last an hour before coming back. 

Maglor hadn’t left. Maglor was waiting for him, cross-legged on the sand with his hands on his knees. His expression was quiet, and his eyes, when he opened them, were still dark and full of pain, but the ghosts had faded. 

“I think we should move on,” Daeron said. Maglor nodded, and unfolded from the ground, brushing the sand from his palms. 

“Yes,” he said.

And that was all.

* * *

They came to a settlement of Men and watched it from a distance. Daeron felt the old familiar bitterness well up like a canker. “Why did they survive?” he asked. Maglor’s mouth twitched. 

“They change. They adapt. Something I think we never will, only going on, the same as we always have.” 

Daeron gritted his teeth. “They are weak. Deceitful. Their lives pass in the blink of an eye.”

Maglor seemed amused. “Do you ever blame her?” He asked. Daeron tensed. It was one of those things they never spoke of. Like Doriath in general. 

“Blame her? For what?” Daeron asked, tightly, and Maglor turned his head just enough that their eyes met. 

“For loving someone else,” Maglor said. Daeron blinked, and then shook his head slowly. 

“No, I…I wasn’t worthy of her. But – dammit, neither was _he!_ ”

“No one,” Maglor said, his voice lowering and changing slightly in timbre, “Ever gets what they deserve. Aren’t we just the examples of that?” There was mocking in his voice, self-deprecation, and something more brutal still underneath that Daeron couldn’t find the words to name. 

The Men in the camp continued to move, seeming to scuttle like ants. Daeron turned away. “Let’s not stay here,” he said, lowly, and they retreated to quieter ground. 

That night he woke weeping from a dream without knowing why, and found Maglor watching him. For a moment he thought the other elf would come and lay hands on him again, bring him gasping into mindless oblivion, and his body tightened with unexpected anticipation. 

But Maglor did not stir, and Daeron slept again.

* * *

The next time it happened, it was a foul day in a fouler month of days. The land around them was barren, unfamiliar and shattered, fallen away in some places and risen in others. Lúthien was in his thoughts and Beren not far behind. It was hot, not a wind, not a sound, and only Maglor like a ghost at his back. 

He snapped. 

“Why are you here?” He yelled, furious. “Why do you follow me? You’re like some damned curse, a crow, why didn’t you die with the rest of your dark brood!”

A moment later he almost staggered, but Maglor hadn’t flinched. His face was impassive, and there was something, strangely, like compassion in his eyes. Or maybe only more grief. “Take what you need,” he murmured, and this time Daeron understood. 

He slammed Maglor to his knees, and here he was, a Kinslayer in the dirt before him, Daeron, a nothing. Daeron’s entire body was taut and throbbing. Maglor closed his eyes and Daeron tightened his fist in the still-rich black hair and hissed, “Look at me.” 

Maglor opened his eyes and met Daeron’s, and did not look away. When it was over Daeron felt weak and empty, as if he had ejaculated hate along with his semen, and it had found a repository in the Fëanorian’s body. 

Maglor rose. He was not, Daeron noticed, aroused, and he felt a twist in his stomach. 

It wasn’t like nausea, though. More like triumph, like he’d finally was master of something outside himself. 

He wondered if that made him sick. Maglor’s grey eyes showed him nothing.

* * *

Not much changed between them. They wandered. And every so often, Maglor was on his knees. Sometimes it happened when the other elf was in the grip of guilt or memories and half mad. Sometimes it happened when Daeron’s temper broke. Sometimes it just seemed to happen. 

They slept apart and traveled together, and sometimes Daeron’s cock found its way between Maglor’s lips, and that was all. There was something sad and pitiful about it, Daeron knew, this mockery of intimacy or affection or whatever it was. It was a parody, much as they themselves were. 

Maglor’s screaming nightmares were fewer. Daeron didn’t know what that meant. 

“There are other survivors,” Daeron said, once. “Would you ever think of going to them?” 

“No,” said Maglor, softly. “I have everything I need here.”


End file.
